Children of Time, TARDISode 3: A Study in White
by Wholmes Productions
Summary: March, 1895. On a night out in Paris, the Companions encounter a well-known Gothic author – and they're not the only ones painting the town red... Follow-on from 'The Icarus Experiment'.
1. A Night to Forget

**==Chapter One: A Night to Forget==**

_I'm afraid this is going to hurt. But if it's any consolation, the dead don't tend to remember._

"Well, that could have been worse..."

Watson gave the Doctor a pained look as he and the Time Lord struggled through the TARDIS door with their patient – around the Doctor, that line was on a par with 'What could possibly go wrong?' He glanced back over his shoulder in concern at Holmes, who was bringing up the rear; the detective wasn't in much better shape. "Don't get any ideas, Holmes –" he said sternly, "you're next!"

Holmes looked for a moment as if he were about to argue, but he must have caught the implacable glint in his friend's eye, because a reluctant nod was his only response. And that very lack of protest told Watson just how badly the evening's events must have shaken the detective. He and the Doctor bore the barely-conscious journalist down the passage to the medbay; the TARDIS had wisely left that room in the same place ever since they'd become permanent Companions!

Watson couldn't help but smile in grim amusement. Ironic, really, that this whole bloody mess had begun in much the same manner...

o0o

The trio hastily exited the stately Napoleonic building, Holmes and Watson only releasing the Doctor's elbows once they reached the bottom of the steps.

"Well, that went well!" Holmes said sarcastically.

"Oi, it went about as well as it could!" the Doctor huffed, still looking deeply offended.

Watson sighed, raising a meaningful eyebrow. "Considering our _exit_ received the loudest applause of the evening..."

The Doctor ignored the pointed comment, straightening his tuxedo. "Right, so... let's leave off with the motion pictures and go for a walk. Anyone fancy seeing the view from the Eiffel Tower?"

Watson brightened – he had to admit, he would have hated to leave Paris without visiting that magnificent landmark. He and Holmes had had little opportunity for sightseeing when they were last here in '91... "As long as we can take the TARDIS up there," he smiled, a touch ruefully, gazing in admiration at the graceful spire in the distance. "I'll never manage all those steps!"

"'Course we can…" The Doctor blinked, frowning. "I think. Hold on, would she actually fit…" his voice trailing off, "…up there…"

"Well, the second level, at least –" Of course, Holmes must have already made the climb himself before returning to London – "and we can take the lift from there..." The detective suddenly noticed the Time Lord's distracted air. "Doctor?"

The Doctor blinked again, seeming to return to the present. "Nothing. I just... yeah, nothing. All right, then, back to the TARDIS!"

Watson exchanged an uneasy glance with Holmes, although both refrained from commenting for the moment. If the Doctor's heightened senses had indeed perceived something noteworthy, it seemed fair to assume that it would soon make itself apparent to all three of them...

Next instant, the Companions stiffened in alarm as a cry of terror shattered the still night air, ending just as abruptly.

"Good God!" Without waiting for the other two to recover, Holmes took off in the direction of the yell. The two doctors were quick to follow, however – they had to be, Holmes knew the streets of Paris far better than either of them, and being even one corner too far behind in this maze...

Watson's thoughts were interrupted by a cry of pain from up ahead – no, it was more than one, what on earth...?! He saw Holmes reeling back from the next corner, looking dazed, only just avoiding measuring his length on the ground by catching hold of a nearby railing. As Watson and the Doctor raced up, they saw why: a thickset, bearded man in a suit was picking himself up off the ground, putting a hand gingerly to an already bleeding nose. He and the detective must have collided head on, literally.

"Jaysus, boyo," the man groaned, his faint Irish brogue sounding understandably nasal, "look where you're going!"

Still looking rather shaken, Holmes opened his mouth to respond in kind as Watson lent him his arm, then closed it again on registering the man's unexpected accent, eyes gleaming with curiosity.

Then, before any of the trio could respond appropriately, the man was off and running again, this time up a different street entirely. "Well, come on!" he shouted back over his shoulder.

With a huff of what sounded like delighted laughter, the Doctor instantly took off after the stranger, his nonplussed Companions close behind...

* * *

The TARDIS had the medbay fully lit and operational as they entered. "Doctor, have you ever actually performed a blood transfusion before?" Watson said anxiously.

"Matter or fact, I have." The Doctor had learned between trial-and-error and the TARDIS's help, but he did know how. He just wished that he hadn't had to learn the way he did... "And we've got every human blood type on hand—few centuries' worth of travel with human passengers getting themselves into all kinds of trouble, and you get to be prepared."

Watson sighed as they lifted their now unconscious patient onto the nearest medcot. "Why does that not surprise me?"

The Time Lord deigned not to respond.

o0o

Another couple of streets over, and their mystery Irishman rounded the corner only to just stop himself from tripping over a pair of legs. The owner lay half hidden in a doorway. "_Cac_," he muttered, "we're too late..."

The Doctor grimaced. "Oh... ooo..." He knelt and murmured to the body, "I'm so sorry..." He tugged it out of the doorway and nearly fell back in surprise. "Oh... well, now, what have we here?" he mused. The flesh was white and desiccated, as if the body had been totally drained of...

A wide-eyed Sherlock Holmes knelt on the other side. "Doctor, look at this..." He gestured at... oh, hello, a pair of puncture wounds at the base of the corpse's throat.

Above them, Watson was saying to the Irishman: "If you'll allow me, sir? Your nose is bleeding. I apologise for my colleague—he is rather hardheaded..."

The Doctor frowned. "Tha' looks like... 'course, it can't be, they're not real, but still..."

Holmes arched That Eyebrow—the one that never failed to make the Doctor feel as though _he_ was the Companion, rather than the other way around. "Doctor, around you, the word 'can't' becomes rather redundant."

"Yeah, but it looks like a vampire bite, and vampires aren't real. They're not." Not the undead kind the twenty-first century obsessed over, anyway...

The Irishman was sitting on the ground now, grinning and letting Watson tend to him. "Well, now, just me good luck to run into a doctor!"

Out of the corner of the Doctor's eye, he saw Watson smile. "Someone has to clean up the messes my friend leaves..."

The stranger sighed. "Well, I highly doubt he's responsible for this one! Poor devil... Abraham Stoker, Daily Telegraph."

The Doctor's head shot up to stare at the man as he and Watson shook hands. _Bram Stoker?_ That was brilliant!

"John Watson, M.D."

Holmes looked up with a warning frown to his friend. Of course: their past selves were still up in Scotland, and Stoker was a fellow Londoner—and a journalist, to boot.

Stoker's eyes widened. "Jaysus, Mary, and Joseph," he murmured.

Watson seemed to remember too late and glanced away, grimacing.

The Doctor murmured soothingly to Holmes, "Steady on..." He donned his specs and said in a normal tone, "Actually, I could do with a magnifying lens—check these puncture wounds better."

Holmes removed his glass from an inside pocket of his frock coat and handed it over. "A pleasure, Mr. Stoker. Sherlock Holmes—as you've no doubt deduced."

Stoker nodded and shook hands. "A pleasure to meet all of you, Mr. Holmes, although I wish it was under better circumstances. I'd heard you were out of town, but I must admit I hadn't expected to find you here!"

"They turn up in all sorts of places," the Doctor murmured wickedly, unable to help himself. Then he crouched down close to the neck. "I think... there's something there... not blood, not skin..." He glanced up at Holmes and tilted his head invitingly. "Wanna take a look?"

Holmes nodded but frowned slightly at their shadowy surroundings. "I'll need some better light, Doctor—I don't quite have your night vision."

The Doctor winced—he'd have used a torch if it had just been the three of them. "Right..."

Stoker held up a hand. "Allow me, gentlemen." He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a small oilskin packet that contained a candle stub and a bundle of matches. He grinned at Holmes's faintly surprised but approving expression. "My work takes me into all manner of interesting places, Mr. Holmes, same as yours." He struck a match on his heel, lit the candle, and shielded the flame from the wind.

Holmes nodded gratefully and took a closer look at the punctures. He took the spent match and a leaf from his notepad, picked the end of the matchstick to a point, and used it to scrape the edges of the wounds, managing to collect some tiny white flakes. He passed the paper over to the Doctor, who was watching in fascination—the first time he'd ever gotten to see the Great Detective do honest-to-goodness forensics. "Don't sneeze," he murmured.

"I won't," the Doctor breathed, taking the paper. His eyes widened at a thought. "Um..." Giving Holmes a questioning look, he used his free hand to mimic holding the sonic to the paper.

Holmes opened his mouth to speak when his gaze fell on the candle. "One moment." He picked up one of the flakes with the matchstick and brought it close to the flame—the flake melted quickly in the heat. "Doctor," he said slowly, looking greatly puzzled, "I think this is wax."

Both Doctors frowned. "But why would wax be in a puncture wound?" said Watson. "A wax-coated... weapon?"

The Doctor grimaced. "Like two pins... or something. Wax-coated pins? But that wouldn't explain how he ended up looking like this."

Stoker cleared his throat. "And I hate to be the bearer of more bad news, gentlemen... but he isn't the first victim, either."

Holmes frowned deeply. "And you did not think to mention this before?"

"Well, I'd assumed that was why you were here in the first place!" Stoker retorted. Then he sighed. "Forgive me, sirs—if your reason for being in Paris is a delicate matter, you can rely on my discretion, I promise you. For my part, my editor originally sent me here to cover the Lumiѐre brothers' film screening... but when I arrived, all of this hullabaloo had already begun..." He spread his hands. "It wasn't exactly a difficult decision to make."

"No, 'course not," the Doctor said soothingly. He rose to his feet. "This _is_ the first we've heard of it." He exhaled heavily and ran a hand through his hair. "Wax in puncture wounds and apparently serial killings." He glanced at his detective Companion. "Holmes? Any theories?"

Holmes only gave him a Look. "I never _theorise_ without sufficient data, Doctor. Mr. Stoker, what can you tell us about the other attacks?"

"Only what I've been told, Mr. Holmes, which I'd advise anyone to take with a large pinch of salt." Stoker smiled ruefully, taking out his own notepad. "Being a journalist is much like detective work in that sense, as well: sifting through all the blarney to find the cold, hard facts. According to 'eyewitness' accounts, both victims had their throats literally torn out, blood all over the place... but I strongly suspect the truth is more akin to what we've got here. Unfortunately, I've not been able to gain access to the police reports, or the mortuary."

"And the victims themselves?"

Stoker consulted his notes. "The first was Paul L'Amorisse, a tobacconist, 25, last seen heading home from the local tavern, found dead next morning only a street from his own residence. The second was Claude Héron, 32, an out-of-work labourer. The neighbours said he'd had a row with his wife after one too many and stormed out into the night... only to turn up, or rather face down, in the gutter two days later."

"And a third young man here," Watson mused.

The Doctor was still smarting from Holmes's reproach as his mind raced to put the pieces together in some semblance of order. "But _wax_. And the draining of the... the draining." His eyes widened in remembrance. "Oh. _Oh_, that... but... it wasn't like this that time..."

"Doctor, what is it?" said Watson.

The Doctor shook his head slowly. "I've seen a corpse like this before, just one, mind you. But that was one puncture mark, not two..."

Stoker looked at him pointedly. "We're all ears, Doctor."

Holmes glanced sideways at the Irishman, then gave the Doctor a slight nod. The Time Lord understood—Stoker had already promised confidentiality, and numbers were important with a serial killer on the loose.

The Doctor tilted his head fractionally in response. "It was—" he winced—"a woman who pierced her victim in the neck with a straw and then just... sucked..."

Watson and Stoker paled—Watson on the sickened end of the spectrum, Stoker on the aghast end. "_Ifrean__n na Fola_..." The TARDIS glitched slightly in that moment, because the Doctor heard both the actual Irish Gaelic Stoker used and its English translation.

Holmes shook his head in disgust, then frowned. "But what sort of creature would need to drink human blood?" He sighed. "Besides the obvious, which you've already made clear doesn't exist."

Doctor sucked in his breath. "Plasmavores. Shape-shifters—internal shape-shifters. They don't _drink_ blood—they _assimilate_ it. But why...?" He began to pace. "Before, _that_ plasmavore was a murderess on the run... what does _this_ one want?"

Holmes spread his hands. "How much motive does a predator require? If these plasmavores see other races as little more than a means of nourishment... How often have any of us been truly concerned with the feelings of the Sunday roast when it went under the butcher's knife?"

Stoker winced at the blunt but accurate analogy. "Well, this creature clearly needs 're-educating', then!" He smiled grimly. "I'd be more than happy to volunteer..."

* * *

**Authors' notes:** Did anyone else notice that the plasmavore's first victim in 'Smith and Jones' is a Mr. B. Stoker? *sigh* The writers just had to, didn't they? All that's missing is the red shirt... ;)

Funnily enough, this plotline, including Bram Stoker, was originally intended for Episode 5. We had half an adventure roleplayed out, set at Howe Caverns in the north of New York State, but it kind of lost momentum, as we really had no idea how to conclude the story. Eventually, we rewrote 'Icarus' the way it is now, and saved the initial plotline for the shorter TARDISode. We're pretty sure it works better this way! Stay tuned...


	2. An Unexpected Turn

**==Chapter Two: An Unexpected Turn==**

_"As you know, human history is full of evil deeds, and maybe we ought to think of them with tears, not fascination."  
_— Elizabeth Kostova, The Historian

With Stoker out of danger and resting comfortably, Watson immediately turned his attention to Holmes, who was a good deal more thankful for the treatment than he would admit – his head and shoulders had been aching badly.

The Doctor sat astride a chair, watching his Companions, expression impassive but his forehead creased in concern. "I'm sorry I didn't get there sooner," he murmured.

Holmes shook his head gingerly, as Watson finished working on him and returned to monitoring his other patient. "Doctor, a bloodhound might have gotten turned around down there! If we hadn't used the chalk..."

The Doctor shivered. "I'm glad you did. Being drained by a plasmavore isn't fun – found that one out the hard way... Well, I had to!" in a slightly protesting tone, as the detective's eyes widened. "She internalised my DNA, which marked her as being non-human on the scanners of the... Oh, never mind," he sighed. "Thing is, you just can't… drain a Time Lord as quickly as you can a human. I've got more blood in my body than she was counting on drinking."

Holmes nodded absently, the Doctor's last words barely registering – his thoughts were returning to this evening's encounter...

o0o

The Doctor raised his eyebrows as Holmes and Stoker levered open the manhole cover. "Now _there_ is a spooky tunnel, if ever there was one."

Holmes arched an amused eyebrow of his own. "A little less melodrama, Doctor; we are conducting an investigation, not acting out a Gothic horror novel." It hadn't taken the detective long to realise the creature's most likely hiding place was right under their feet: the city's catacombs, a veritable honeycomb of dank, narrow passages, stretching for miles below the streets of Paris.

Watson sighed, his own opinion of Holmes' last comment clear. "Honestly, Holmes, you've simply no respect for atmosphere!"

"I didn't hear you complaining about that in Dartmoor," Holmes responded dryly. "On the last night, anyhow..."

"Oh, come on, Holmes!" the Doctor grinned, expression brightening at the reference. "A little Gothic horror's good for the soul." He reached into his inside coat pocket, bringing out a pair of hand-sized electric torches and, Holmes was relieved to note, a box of chalk sticks – just how often had the Time Lord been in a situation like this? "Shall we?"

Once they'd descended, however, it quickly became apparent that finding a lone plasmavore in these tunnels was going to be an arduous task. Holmes took great care to mark every twist and turn of their chosen route; even Mycroft, with his eidetic memory, would have been hard pressed to navigate such a labyrinth unassisted. Then again, his corpulent elder brother would never have managed to fit down here in the first place...

After what seemed like hours, the Doctor finally managed to pick up a faint trace with the sonic screwdriver, although he refused to elaborate further; unfortunately, the trail split in two at an intersection soon after. A brief discussion ended with the group also dividing, Holmes and Stoker taking the left-hand path. For some reason, the detective felt far better about the two doctors watching each other's backs on this occasion – and travelling with the Doctor had only served to strengthen Holmes' inclination to trust his instincts.

Detective and journalist continued warily on into the maze, not speaking a word, stepping as silently as possible through the various debris on the floor of the tunnel – other humans had clearly come this way recently. A few minutes later, Holmes was startled to feel a cool draught on his cheek; there must be another entrance close by. He made certain to mark the wall appropriately, finding their way back to the TARDIS would be far easier aboveground... then tensed as a most unexpected noise fell on his ears: the sound of inconsolable sobbing... and in a child's voice!

Holmes and Stoker looked at each other wide-eyed, then picked up the pace as one, straining their ears at every corner. At last, they found a small, low-roofed chamber, where a small girl in a mud-stained nightgown was curled up on the floor beside a guttering lantern, crying bitterly. She started in terror when the pair appeared in the doorway, shrinking back, her pale face streaked with dirt and tears._ "Oh, messieurs, you are not with the terrible lady, are you? Please tell me you are not!"_

Stoker looked at Holmes with a sheepish smile. "I hope your French is better than mine!"

At Holmes' nod, Stoker turned back to the main tunnel, keeping watch, while the detective cautiously entered the cave, his smile grave but kind. _"Do not be afraid, petite, we are here to help you."_

"_Oh, monsieur, thank goodness!"_ The child clutched at Holmes' coat sleeve imploringly. _"Please get me out of here – the terrible lady said she would eat me!"_

Holmes frowned sternly – his experience with the younger Irregulars had done little to prepare him for a situation like this, but he hoped that an authoritative approach would at least help to forestall any further hysterics. _"She will not harm you, petite, I promise. Come, we will take you home." _To Stoker: "The plasmavore is female, according to the child."

Stoker echoed the detective's frown. "I don't like this, Mr. Holmes, not one bit. Why's the creature suddenly storing up snacks for later?"

"Perhaps it knows it's attracted too much attention aboveground." Holmes slowly backed out of the chamber, the white-faced girl holding tightly to his hand, eyes still wide with fear. "Either way, we can't go any further with the child in tow."

Stoker nodded reluctantly as the three headed back up the tunnel, shining his torch closely onto the wall to check for their chalk marks as they approached the next corner. "I just hope we can find a gendarme or similar when we get to the surface. I'd really rather not leave the other two down here with that thing..." The journalist's voice was cut off abruptly by the noise of a sickening thud.

Holmes, who had been mostly occupied with coaxing the child along the passage, looked up in alarm at the sound, an instant before he himself received a stunning blow to his head from behind. The detective cried out and staggered sideways, sliding down the rock wall to the ground. Dazed, Holmes stared up at the motionless child, struggling to make his thoughts move through the cloud of pain. _"Run, petite...!"_ he managed to gasp out. _"Follow the chalk..." _

"Follow the chalk?" The girl's voice had suddenly changed to that of a woman, rich and sultry, speaking in heavily-accented English. "Will that lead me to your friends, Monsieur Holmes?"

Heavy footsteps sounded and a pair of strong hands – inhumanly strong – raised Holmes to a semi-standing position, holding his upper arms in an iron grip. In the light of the fallen torch, Holmes could see Stoker hanging limply beside him in the grasp of a second figure. Both were clad entirely in black, faces hidden by scarves and wide-brimmed hats pulled low. He might have surmised that these were more plasmavores, but his captor's hands were hard and cold, whereas the girl's hand had been warm in his. Strange, though – the scent of leather was oddly intense for a mere pair of gloves...

His attention was drawn back to the child, whose appearance and clothes were rapidly changing, until a full-grown woman stood before the detective, dressed as a prostitute. Holmes couldn't help but note that her features were exquisitely beautiful – although that lacked the power to impress somewhat, since he now knew that the creature could appear however it... however she wished.

A bitter smile twisted the detective's lips – he could have kicked himself for being so easily taken in – and bowed as much as he was able. "_Enchanté, mam'zelle."_

The woman gave an elegant curtsey in response. "Such a pleasure to meet _you,_ Monsieur. I have read all of your friend's stories. He is here with you in Paris, is he not?" Her lips curved in a wicked smile, eyes gleaming hungrily.

Did the creature honestly expect Holmes to answer that question? "You flatter me, mam'zelle. I trust that this first encounter has not fallen too far below your expectations."

"It is exactly as I expected it –" The woman sighed – "only no Dr. Watson." She glanced at Stoker, who was beginning to stir. "Fortunately, though, your companion is quite a sturdy man… plenty of blood in his veins." She gave Holmes what was probably meant to be an alluring smile, sidling up to him and gently caressing his neck. The detective tried hard not to react, but he couldn't quite suppress a shudder of revulsion, an icy finger of terror crawling down his spine as the creature murmured, "And I wonder… what nicotine and cocaine and London's fog altogether would taste like? I should like to try it."

Stoker groaned, slowly lifting his head. "Oh, now, I really wouldn't do that, me darlin'!" He shook his head, wincing at the movement. "It'd be a cryin' shame to go spoilin' a refined palate like yours with all those foul chemicals!"

To Holmes' dismay, the plasmavore turned back to Stoker, smile widening. "Ah, Monsieur," she purred, "don't worry – you shall be first." She drew a pair of thin straws from her belt. "I do love an Irishman – so often, so much delicious alcohol…" Stoker grunted faintly in pain as his neck was pierced, but offered no resistance.

Holmes' eyes widened, the woman's last words causing the final piece of the puzzle to fall into place. "And how long has it been, mam'zelle?" he sighed. "How long since you were last able to quench your thirst?" Despite the macabre circumstances, he was still able to empathise with a fellow addict. Besides, any distraction he could provide might give Stoker a few precious extra seconds' reprieve, although to what end, the detective wasn't certain. If the other two didn't get here soon...

To his relief, the plasmavore lifted her head and turned to look at him, eyes wide, pupils hugely dilated. "Far too long. Even the most drunken imbecile can no longer satisfy..." then returned to her straws, sucking desperately.

Holmes nodded. "Too many inebriates... you're becoming that which you feed upon." Although he could well imagine that the plasmavore was getting even less satisfaction from Stoker – when had the journalist last seen the inside of a tavern? "You need not suffer so, mam'zelle. Please, allow us to help you." And he wasn't surprised in the least to find that he meant every word.

The plasmavore's head snapped up, glaring at him. "Would you prefer that I drank you dry first, detective?" she hissed.

"Actually," came the Doctor's even voice from behind Holmes, "we'd rather that you didn't drink anyone dry, at all."

The plasmavore drew back with another hiss as the light from Watson's torch flashed into her face. "Slabs!"

Both captives were dropped as the Slabs turned towards the newcomers, but the Doctor calmly raised the sonic and pointed it at the two figures, who froze in mid-step, sagging. "Don't run. Just let us help."

The plasmavore backed away, teeth bared. "What would a mere human know of my kind? How would you help? You hunt us down and drive stakes through our hearts!"

The Doctor frowned deeply. "Because you were drinking human blood first! And I'm not a human – I'm a Time Lord. I'm the Doctor... and I can help."

Watson, meanwhile, had carefully made his way forward. He crouched beside Stoker, swiftly looking him over, and Holmes' heart sank to see his friend's lips unconsciously tightening – he'd seen that particular tell far too often.

The journalist was still valiantly clinging to consciousness, smiling up at Watson weakly. "Keepin' you busy t'night, eh, Doc?"

Watson returned the smile as cheerfully as he was able. "Don't worry, my dear fellow," he murmured back, "you've got nothing on Holmes..."

The plasmavore drew herself up disdainfully. "Spare me your help and your pity, _Doctor_."

The Doctor shook his head. "As long as you prey on others, your prey will always fight back. You can't win."

To Holmes' acute disappointment, however, the woman didn't even hesitate, merely giving the Time Lord a feral glare before turning and fleeing into the dark.

The Doctor sighed, his regret apparent, then moved to help Holmes, slinging one arm around his shoulders and lifting him gently to his feet. "Hey, you all right?"

Holmes gave a shaky nod, waving the Doctor away. "I'll live – help Watson with Stoker." The weary detective leant against the tunnel wall, gazing wistfully after the vanished woman. He didn't even know her name...

o0o

"Hey." The Doctor's voice interrupted Holmes' reverie. "You okay?"

Returning to the present, Holmes considered brushing off the question, but something in the Doctor's face stopped him. "She's never going to stop, is she?" _Until some superstitious soul drives a stake through her heart..._

"I hope she will..."

Holmes closed his eyes, not reassured in the least. "I've been where she is, Doctor." He looked up at the Doctor mournfully. "She needed a reason to stop... and none of us could give her one." Not even him...

"Except that maybe…" the Doctor said softly, "you got her to think. Maybe you made the difference. Maybe she won't be able to un-see you lot for what you are: _people_."

Holmes gave the Doctor a faint smile – although still largely unconvinced, he did appreciate the effort. "Perhaps..."

* * *

In another few hours, Stoker was fully recovered and shaking hands with Watson. (The Doctor loved watching it—two of the most influential authors of the Victorian Era, and neither of them had a clue!) "I'm much obliged to you, Dr. Watson! It's been a pleasure to meet you both, especially a fellow writer."

Watson's eyes widened in realisation. "Wait, Abraham Stoker... you wouldn't be _Bram_ Stoker, by any chance? Author of 'The Snake's Pass'?" Stoker shrugged modestly, and Watson smiled warmly. "I greatly enjoyed that work, my dear sir!" (The Doctor was definitely not the only _fanboy_ aboard the TARDIS.) "Might we see more from you in the future?"

Stoker chuckled ruefully as he shook hands with Holmes. "Oh, I don't think the old Muse has half finished pestering me yet. Truth be told, that's the main reason I jumped at the original assignment!"

The Doctor was grinning broadly, thoroughly enjoying himself. He couldn't resist winking knowingly and wiggling his eyebrows at Watson out of Stoker's line of vision.

Stoker turned then to the Time Lord. "Doctor..." He paused, forehead creasing in thought. "D'you know, I still don't know your name!"

That was when the Doctor knew that he absolutely couldn't pass up the opportunity to create a tiny paradox. Time wasn't linear, after all... "Van Helsing, Dr. van Helsing." He smiled, nearly trembling with suppressed laughter at his Companions raising their eyebrows in perfect unison behind Stoker, looking at each other in confusion. "And it's been an honour."

Stoker shook his hand, expression considering. "Van Helsing..." Then he blinked and smiled. "It's been an honour for me, as well, Dr. van Helsing. I hope we'll meet again some day."

The Doctor nodded, still smiling. "I would like that. You take care, now."

Stoker grinned back. "I'll do my best!" He nodded at Holmes and Watson, stepped out the door, and closed it behind him.

The Doctor and Holmes grinned in anticipation. Watson's brow furrowed. "But..." he began, and Holmes held up his hand. Stoker had only seen the inside of the TARDIS, thus far...

A faint but explosive Gaelic oath sounded from outside.

The Doctor grinned. "Think we should help him out with that?"

Holmes shook his head, his lean body shaking in silent laughter.

Watson sighed, grinning broadly but sympathetically. "Just this once, Doctor, it's better this way!"

Which was what the Doctor had figured. He laughed and bounded back to the console. "All right, then, but he's about to get a second shock, you know!"

The boys reached for their usual handholds, and Holmes shrugged. "He would have in any case, Doctor!"

"Technicalities!" the Doctor shot back, still grinning. He threw down the lever, and the TARDIS returned to the Vortex.

"So, Doctor," Watson said slowly, "what was all that 'van Helsing' mumbo-jumbo about?"

The Doctor knew that he must have looked like the completely unrepentant kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. The cookies were just that good... "Oh, it might be the name of a fictional character..."

Holmes arched a stern and totally Holmesian eyebrow. "Indeed? And this Dr. van Helsing... he wouldn't have anything to do with _vampires_, by any chance?"

The Doctor frowned indignantly. "Oi! That's _Professor_ van Helsing, I will have you know!" He cast a sly look in their direction. "'Sides, there just might be other fictional characters that _might_ exist in the same story that just might have the surnames 'Holmwood' and 'Westenra'." He tilted his head back to gaze at the ceiling in mock-thoughtfulness. "Now, I wonder where those names might have come from...?"

Holmes and Watson stared at him for a moment, then slowly turned to each other... and laughed.

* * *

**Author's note from Sky:** All I have to say is... blame Ria for the timey-wimey goodness with Stoker! ...wait, no, I lie—one more thing. The plasmavore. That honestly ended up being a hard thing to cope with emotionally, because she suddenly became a very sympathetic villain and it was sad. Add the parallel to Holmes's own experiences... and it had my chest hurting.

**Author's note from Ria:** Regarding the straws – obviously, the plasmavore couldn't use plastic straws in the Victorian era. So, it was research time! Victorians first used hollow rye grass stems, which quickly turned to mush, besides spoiling the taste of the drinks – until the first wax-coated paper straws were invented by Marvin Stone in 1888. Okay, cool, we figured the plasmavore's victim would have only one puncture wound in his neck... until we discovered that because the first paper straws were so narrow, they were often used in pairs! Perfect or what? =)

And the Doctor's not kidding about Holmwood and Westenra, go look it up! Although it is _Lucy_ Westenra... Imagine the look on Watson's face when 'Dracula' gets published! *snicker*

See you in Episode 6, everyone!


End file.
